I should be happy with my lot:A wife and mother -- is it notEnough for me to be content?What other blessing could be sent?
A quiet house, and homely ways,That make each day like other days;I only see Time's shadow nowDarken the hair on baby's brow!
No world's work ever comes to me,No beggar brings his misery;I have no power, no healing artWith bruisèd soul or broken heart.
I read the poets of the age,'Tis lotus eating in a cage;I study Art, but Art is deadTo one who clamors to be fed
With milk from Nature's rugged breast,Who longs for Labor's lusty rest.O foolish wish! I still should pineIf any other lot were mine.
